Hoors? Yeah... Hoors. Prostitutes, Tarts, Hookers, Ladies of Negotiable Affection, call them what you will. For 8 years or so I lived in granite tenement. My Neighbours Were Hoors. Sadly for us all (!?) the brothel was closed down and I moved out of the area. I never did get around to writing about the court case though...

Saturday, August 19, 2006

Yaay! She returns!

Things have been dull Chez Hoors. As dull as the current series of Big Brother...

So imagine how delighted I was to return home to my favourite hoor! Yes! The Liverpudlian Hoor! As detailed in Eight Days A Week

So picture me, if you will, struggling up the stairs at an ungodly hour with my heavy bags full of the tools of my trade, messed up hair, makeup smudged, just generally travel-worn... and stopping to shuffle throught the Tenement Post (a lonely pile still full of loan offers from Mr Jones that died way back in 1971). And imagine, if you will, the smile creeping across my face as I hear The Liverpudlian Hoor's melodious tones as she makes an arrangement on the phone with a punter for the next day:

"Yer, yer - y'aright! Tewmorrow's greight! Fiive theirty. Shore. Feewl Massarge!" The phone clicks.

"Ere, Sandrra! Stick a bitta mewzic on willyer?"

Following last time's splendid performance of The Hoor And Her Maid Sing "A Hard Days Night," how could they top their last performance?

There was a pause and I couldn't hide my joy when I heard...

"Can't buy me loooooove! Looooooove! Can't buy me loooooove!!!"

Damn it was good to be home.

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